Within the catacombs of the mind, where light rarely penetrates, lie the remnants of forgotten musings. Shadows stretch and constrict around the words, whispering them into existence.
In the silence of this philosophical interlude, the echoes of ancient dialectics resound. Goblins of skepticism prance in the periphery, their laughter a chorus of doubts.
As the twilight deepens, the clock continues its eternal dance. Time, a mere illusion, attempts to impose order upon an inherently chaotic dream. A dream where every thought is fossilized, waiting to be unearthed.
And so we ponder, in the ever-deepening night, the shadows of our own shadows.